


like a rug ripped out from under your feet

by orphan_account



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 23:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1099695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce isn't handling Jason's death very well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like a rug ripped out from under your feet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [happyrobins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/happyrobins/gifts).



> [maggie](http://wintersdrake.tumblr.com/) brings out the worst in me~
> 
> uh...merry christmas? (this isn't even remotely a christmas fic OTL)

Bruce grits his teeth and urges his cycle to go faster, to not slip as much on the snow, _to make it there in time_. He can see the warehouse in the distance now, sitting atop a hill all by itself. Had he not known who was in there, Bruce would’ve assumed it was just like any other warehouse in the area. Except he does know. He knows that the Joker is (was?) in there with Jason and possibly a defenseless civilian. He knows that the tock is clicking and that he could very well already be out of time. He knows that –

**_B O O M_ **

He’s at the base of the hill when the warehouse explodes. Ash and debris goes flying, and Bruce brings up his cape to protect what little of his face that is exposed even as his heart stops and the breath freezes in his chest.

_Jason_.

Bruce throws caution to the wind and races up the hill on foot. There’s still ash floating down through the air and fire crackling in the remains, but he doesn’t want to risk being _too late_ to save his _son_. It’s hot and the smoke burns his lungs, but Bruce endures it and begins tossing aside rubble and calling for Jason.

What feels like hours later, Bruce finally catches sight of singed canary-yellow fabric sticking out from under a concrete slab. He throws it aside, hoping that the slab shielded Jason from the worst of the blast, and for a moment thinks his wishes came true. Then he gently picks Jason up, pulling him into his arms, and feels his wish crumble and fall apart before his very eyes…literally.

Jason is dead, that much is obvious. Half of his body isn’t burned that badly, but the other half…His blackened skin splits open and his innards spill out as soon as Bruce picks him up. Bruce gasps, futilely trying to hold Jason’s body together, but it’s pointless. Something that Bruce thinks might be a kidney slips between his fingers and hits the ground.

“No…No, no, no, _no, Jason, **no** …_” Bruce whimpers, feeling tears trickle out from beneath his cowl.

“This is your fault, Bruce,” he hears Jason’s voice say. He blinks, looking up at Jason’s face, and almost screams – the boy’s eyes are wide and glassy with death, but are looking straight at him, and there are tears trickling down his face. “You did this, Bruce,” he says accusingly, “You killed me. You should’ve gotten here in time.” Then his frown turns into a wicked, demented smirk, and he starts laughing, and laughing, and the laughing echoes in Bruce’s ears and it’s all he can see and –

Bruce jerks awake, jackknifing upwards in bed. He stays like that, with a hand over his frantically beating heart for several seconds as awareness seeps back into his brain and he slowly realizes that _it was just a dream_.

Jason’s dead, yes, but his body was not so gruesome a sight as what his mind conjured up for him to view in his sleep this night. It’s a small relief (if relief is even the right word), but it helps calm Bruce down until the panic recedes and all that remains are heaving sobs. He’s not sure how long he lies awake that night, but he knows he doesn’t go back to sleep. He’d rather be exhausted and yawning into the breakfast Alfred will try and force him to eat than undergo that particular nightmare again (it’s the third time this week he’s had it; you’d think once would be enough).

When morning arrives and Alfred comes to wake him up, the butler pretends not to notice how Bruce’s eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, and Bruce in turn doesn’t mention the dark bags under his father figure’s eyes.

 

* * *

 

The world around him is dark and smoky, the air scratchy and painful for his throat and lungs. He’s practically hacking up a lung, but he’s more preoccupied with his search. His hands sift through the rubble, frantically pushing aside mounds of dirt and slabs of blackened concrete in his frantic rush to _find what has been lost_.

He doesn’t know what he’s looking for; he just knows that he needs to find it. _It_ is something red and yellow and green with a dash of snark and a splattering of freckles and a reckless, headstrong attitude and –

He pulls aside a large chunk of concrete and he just barely has time to register _I finally found him Jason burns blood oh god too much blood he’s dead oh god I didn’t make it in time **he’s dead**_ before –

Bruce’s eyes snap open and he gasps. Chest heaving and cheeks wet, he slowly pushes himself into a sitting position and wonders why he even bothers trying to sleep anymore. It’s fruitless, he hasn’t had a nightmare-free sleep since…. _since_ , and his performance in the field is starting to reflect it.

He needs Dick here, needs to see him alive and whole and well, needs to reassure himself that at least one of his sons is healthy, but his eldest ( _only, now_ a dark part of his mind whispers) is still off-planet with the Titans and too far out to contact. He has no idea about Jason yet, and Bruce dreads having to break the news to him.

Grinding the heels of his palms into his eyes, Bruce takes deep breaths and tries to calm himself down. He counts to ten, then to thirty, then to fifty, then gives up and punches his pillow instead, then once more for good measure.

He gives up on going back to sleep (it’s 5am anyway, there’s no point in it) and heads down to the Cave to work instead. Alfred will be disappointed, yes, but Bruce needs to occupy himself and keep his mind busy on thoughts other than Jason’s dead, burned, and bleeding body in his arms.

 

* * *

 

Hours later, when he’s busy doing a chemical analysis of the drug found in a dead politician’s bloodstream, Bruce hears the most unwelcome sound of the League transporter teleporting someone into his Cave. He grits his teeth, hands in tight, white-knuckled fists, and is about to turn around and give the intruder a piece of his mind because _he requested to be left alone for a month are you such a dumbass that you can’t see it hasn’t even been three weeks_ when a slender, yet calloused hand comes to rest on his shoulder.

“Bruce,” Diana says gently but firmly, “We need to talk.” Carefully, she turns him around and pulls down his cowl – when did he put it on? He sees Clark standing behind her, wearing quite possibly the saddest expression he’s seen on the Man of Steel in…ever.

“What are you doing here?” he growls, “I thought I requested privacy for a month. It hasn’t even been half of that, and here you are, standing in my Cave, _uninvited!_ ” Diana purses her lips, but Clark is the one that speaks this time.

“Bruce,” he begins, “We’ve been keeping up with the news. We know the past few weeks have been difficult for you,” he raises his voice over Bruce’s protests, “but you _really_ need to rest.” Looking at the bags under his friend’s eyes, Clark says, “When’s the last time you _slept_ , Bruce? And for more than an hour or two at a time?”

“That’s _none of your business_ ,” Bruce bites out, eyes dark and bitter.

“Yes, actually, it is,” Diana says, “It becomes our business when what you’re doing is detrimental to your health and mental well-being.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Bruce growls, even though he’s very clearly quite the opposite. “Quit wasting my time and go back to getting cats out of trees or whatever it is you do during the day.” It’s a weak insult and he knows it.

“No.” Bruce stills, then raises an eyebrow.

“What?”

“You heard me,” Diana says, hands on her star-spangled hips. “ _N-O_. **No**. We’re not leaving until you’ve talked about your feelings or you’ve gotten more than two hours of solid sleep, and it doesn’t have to happen in that order.”

“Come on, Bruce,” Clark says, pulling Bruce out of his chair and over to a nearby bench. Bruce notes absentmindedly that Jason used to do cartwheels down that very bench when he grew impatient with waiting for patrol to start. He sits on one side of Bruce, while Diana sits on the other. “Talk to us,” he says earnestly, “We’re your _friends_. That’s what friends are _for_.”

Bruce is silent for a long time. He doesn’t want this, doesn’t want his…his _friends_ to see him in such a weak state, at such an emotionally vulnerable time, but the weeks since Jason’s death have been _hard_. Nightmares, cover-ups, lies, cover stories, funeral arrangements, tracking down the Joker, dealing with Gotham’s standard crime rate, _more_ nightmares…he’s doing too much work on not enough sleep and it’s started to show. Normally, when things get this hectic, when he’s wearing this thin, Jason is there to cheer him up with a well-timed joke or a sudden insight on a case.

Bruce leans forward, elbows on his knees and head in his hands, and says very quietly, “I miss Jason.”

No more words are needed. Diana cards her fingers through his hair and Clark places a comforting hand on his shoulder. They sit in mournful, yet companionable silence, ignoring how Bruce’s shoulders shake. This is what they _want_. They want him to cry, to let all his pent-up emotions out. Crying is healthy, putting criminals in body casts and only sleeping for an hour or two at a time is _not_. At some point, Clark maneuvers his cape so that it covers Bruce’s shoulders. Bruce hardly seems to notice, though he does seem to unconsciously lean into Clark’s touch more.

Finally, it is time for them to go. They need to leave before they overstay their welcome, before they undo all their hard work. They get to their feet, and Diana comes to stand in front of Bruce. Without a word, she leans down, pushes back his hair, and leaves a chaste kiss on his creased forehead. When Bruce looks up at her, she carefully wipes away the remaining tears on his face with her thumb.

“We’re going to go now,” she says quietly, “But please, Bruce, _please_ get some rest. Some sleep and food will do wonders in giving you enough energy to track down the Joker.” She’s not going to sidestep around that elephant, she knows exactly what’s on Bruce’s mind, and frankly the only thing stopping her from killing the Joker herself is the fact that Bruce would probably never speak to her again.

“Diana’s right,” Clark says, “Please try and take better care of yourself. I don’t know what the League would do without you.”

Bruce snorts, and Clark can just _tell_ he’s thinking something about the Watchtower glitching out and falling to Earth. He pats his friend on the shoulder once more, then turns and leaves with Diana.

Bruce watches their backs as they leave. Alfred must’ve put them up to it, but he won’t lie…their company and support was nice.

 

* * *

 

Bruce pushes his cycle to go as fast as it can. He’s going dangerously fast now, especially considering the poor weather conditions. He can see the warehouse now in the distance, and an odd fluttering feeling arises in his chest as he thinks _he just might make it in time_. He ditches the cycle halfway up the hill, then kicks the door in as soon as he’s close enough.

Jason is lying just to the side of the door, eyes swollen shut and blood trickling out of mouth, but _alive_. Bruce’s eyes immediately latch on to the red numbers blinking a steady countdown, and he curses. As carefully as he can, he quickly lifts his unconscious sidekick into his arms and races out of the doorway. He’s no more than ten feet away when the building explodes, concrete and rock and rubble spraying everywhere.

Bruce hovers over Jason protectively, using his cape’s fire-retardant abilities to its fullest as he shields Jason’s already battered body from any further injury. Finally the rubble settles and it’s safe (safe _r_ ) to move Jason. Carefully, Bruce manages to climb onto the abandoned cycle and maneuver Jason into a somewhat safe position in front of him. The teenager groans and seems to be coming to.

Bruce cups a protective hand around his son’s head and whispers a hoarse, “Hush, Jason, I’m here, everything’s fine. You’ll be okay, _I’m here now_.”

 

* * *

 

This time when Bruce wakes up, it isn’t sudden and there isn’t a scream in his throat. Yet, this time it’s so much worse, because he had hope. He was _happy_ , and then he woke up and that happiness was yanked out from underneath him like a rug. He doesn’t bother sitting up this time. Instead, he just rolls over and stares blankly at his dark ceiling. He can’t even muster up the energy to cry, not even a single traitorous tear.

Of all the nightmares he’s had since Jason’s death, _this one_ hurts the most. 


End file.
